


Distance

by quakenbake (raccoontitties)



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raccoontitties/pseuds/quakenbake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Santana tries to get over Brittany and fails. Deals with Santana's guilt and their eventual reconciliation. It's really not as angsty as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distance

_Long distance relationships are almost impossible because both people don’t get what they really need._

You rethink the last conversation you had with Brittany, the words spinning through your head on continuous loop. You know that you were right, that you did the responsible thing. Kurt and Blaine were even more sickeningly in love than you and Brittany and they couldn’t make it. Apparently, the four-month separation was enough to make Berry finally relax her death grip on her unhealthy liaison with Gomer Pyle. Why should you be any different? Yes, both you and Brittany are better those small town losers in terms of looks, talent, and general awesomeness, but where it counts everyone has to deal with the same challenges when apart from the person they love.

Seeing the pain in Brittany’s eyes hurt so much. It hurt even worse when you realized that even though she clearly wanted to talk you out of it, she didn’t. She easily  _could_  have; it’s hard to say no to her when she’s adamant about something. But she stayed silent, letting you ramble on and you knew deep down she’d been having the same worries. When you kissed her, you tried to press as much love into her lips as possible. When she took you in her arms, you felt her sending the same silent message, squeezing her devotion into your body. As if you doubted it. As if you couldn’t feel it from ten feet away.

You left Lima the next afternoon. If you weren’t seeing Brittany, there was no point in staying. Your parents were too busy with work to be around for more than a quick dinner and that four-day weekend from school was pushing it to begin with. On the drive back to Louisville, you promise yourself that you won’t sit and pine for Brittany. Not like junior year. No. Back then, it was your fault, your stubbornness and fear keeping you apart. This was different. You're  doing what's best for you. Best for Brittany. If she wanted, she could see other people, enjoy her senior year with friends and people who could be there for her all the time, not just in fifteen-minute Skype conversations and random texts during the day. She deserved that and you deserved it too.

The first night back in your dorm room, you let yourself cry again. It was just like the night before, but at least you couldn’t still smell Brittany on your sheets and feel the phantom warmth where her head had rested on your pillows just two nights ago. But the next morning, you glared at yourself in the mirror, as if your own stern expression would scare some sense into you.  _Enough_ , you thought. It’s your first year of college. You’re young and you’re hot. If anything, this break up is a blessing. Brittany is the only person you’ve even _really_  been with on an emotional level. Brittany was the only person you  _could_  be with once you finally decided to acknowledge your sexuality. Maybe, you need to open yourself up to something and some _one_  new.

It seems like fate a few days later when you trudge into the library after a grueling cheerleading practice. With midterms approaching, the facility is open twenty-four hours a day. As you swipe your campus ID, you see a vaguely familiar face. It’s the Virginia Woolf girl, only this time her hair is pinned back and she’s reading Kate Chopin. She smiles at you again, her eyes taking on that slightly predatory gleam that repulses you in guys, but you find mildly enticing in girls. Since she was partly the catalyst for your break up, you smile back fully this time and walk over to her table.

“Hi, I’m Santana. I think I saw you in here a while ago. Do you always keep such late hours?”

Her name is Zoe and she’s a junior majoring in sociology. She likes coming to the library late because it’s less crowded. She also works at a nearby bookstore in the afternoons so she really only gets to start her homework at night. She motions for you to join her so you do. After just under two hours of actual studying, you look up to find her watching you. You ask her if she wants to go grab some coffee. She doesn’t seem surprised by your boldness, but you are.

Coffee leads to her walking with you back to your room, which leads to her pressing you against your door in an aggressive kiss. Objectively, you register that she's actually a fabulous kisser. Much better than Puck and slightly worse than Trouty Mouth. Still, something is off. She tastes like cinnamon instead of some fruity candy. The feel of her tongue ring is jarring against your lips. When you open your eyes, you’re struck by the fact that her hair is the wrong length and the wrong shade. Everything is just wrong.

She realizes you’re crying before you do. Tasting your salty tears, she pulls back. It’s the kindness in her eyes that finally sends you over the edge. It wasn’t that long ago when another pair of eyes,  _the right pair_ , was giving you a similar look of concern. When you burst into tears, she’s actually very nice about it. She takes your key and pulls you into your room and lets you cry it out on her shoulder. When you’re coherent enough to explain, she chuckles and says that she’s always wanted to mentor a baby gay. She leaves you her number and tells you to call her if you ever need to talk.

Zoe ends up actually being a really good friend. She thinks you’re trying to rebound a little too fast but doesn’t press it when you curtly tell her to mind her own business. She knows of a few places around campus that are LGBT-friendly and offers to take you out. A year or so ago, you would have punched anyone for even suggesting such a thing; now you practically jump at the opportunity.  
  
You’re nervous, so you down a few swallows of tequila in your room before you meet her. The club is small and just grimy enough to promise a good time. The last thing you clearly remember is taking a few shots with Zoe at the bar before she goes off to dance with some girl who’d been eyeing her from across the room.  
\---  
You’re going to die. There is no way that you can survive the icepick being hammered through your skull. The pain is so intense you have to work up to opening your eyes. The curtains are drawn but that doesn’t help much. A war rages in your body between the ache in your head and the uncomfortable pressure in your bladder. If you stay still, neither will really go away but one could get pretty messy. You actually whimper a little when you pull yourself up and stagger towards the bathroom. Halfway there, it becomes clear that this is not your room. Everything is too pink and the pictures on the dresser aren’t of you and Brittany, or you, Brittany and Quinn, or of the Glee Club or Cheerios. Slowly turning your head so as to not make things worse, you look back at the bed. You see nothing but a pale shoulder and a lot of red hair. For a moment you think about how unfortunate it is for a ginger to have pink as a favorite color, then your sluggish brain puts the pieces together. You’re only wearing a bra and it looks like she isn’t wearing anything. Clothes are strewn in a trail from the door to the bed and the sheets are way too rumpled to assume you just crashed here.  
  
You quickly enter the bathroom when a wave of nausea hits you so hard you have to lean against the sink. The good thing about college dormitories is that there isn't far to travel from the sink to the toilet. Once your retching subsides into dry heaving, you lean back against the wall. You’ve never been this sick after a night of drinking before. You certainly have never thrown up the morning after. That must have been some strong shit last night. After washing your face and gathering almost all of your clothes, you sneak out of mystery girl’s room and commence your first collegiate walk of shame. You should feel satisfied even if not entirely proud of yourself. This at least proves that you  _can_  be with someone other than Brittany. It doesn’t matter that you were drunk off your ass. Right?  
  
After that night, you stop trying for a while. You were sick as a dog for the rest of the day and you finally admit it doesn’t count as getting over Brittany if you can’t even remember the girl’s name. In any case, schoolwork is getting harder and cheerleading practice is insane the week leading up to homecoming. You bury yourself in your obligations until the fact that you physically don’t have time to think about Brittany convinces you that you’re making progress. That’s how you end up going out with Grace.  
  
Grace is your lab partner in organic chemistry. She’s from Louisiana and between her ramrod straight posture and her pearls, she has the beautiful Southern belle thing going hard. She’s tall and she’s blonde and if it weren’t for her strong accent, she could be Brittany’s sister. At first it seems like the universe is torturing you by forcing you to work so closely with her. You’ve always had a thing for blondes, and it’s clear the line between friendly and handsy is blurred where she’s from. You decide not to read into it. Arrow-straight sorority girls practically dry hump each other on any given Friday night if there’s enough vodka involved. Grace seems so wholesome; you doubt she’s even met a real gay person.  
  
And yet, she keeps making excuses to finish lab reports in one of your rooms instead of the library. She sits much closer to you than anyone else sits to their partner and she does that hair flipping thing you used to do when you were flirting with guys. It turns out the whole “proper lady” routine doesn’t conflict with her asking you out. You think maybe it’s because you can’t wait for the guy to make the first move if there  _is no guy_. After a slightly awkward pause, you say yes. Maybe this is a sign. You like Grace; she’s sweet and thinks your scathing sarcasm is funny.  
  
You spend a considerable amount of time getting ready; deciding which of your super short skirts is hot enough for a date yet respectable enough for a girl who’s probably in the DAR. The restaurant is easy to find and she’s waiting for you when the hostess leads you to the table. You hug in greeting and a waft of her perfume settles over you. It’s pleasant. The subtle press of her body against yours is even more so. This just might actually work.  
  
“So Santana,” she says, slowly dragging your name out in that way she has, “How do you like cheerleading in college? Is it hard being a varsity athlete?”  
  
“Not too much harder than in high school. My coach was insane. I’m pretty sure she violated some kind of child endangerment laws even before she tried to fire Brittany out of a cannon.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yeah, she also tried to have the Glee club’s flight rerouted through Libya when all that shit was happening.”  
  
“You did Glee? So did I! Well, we called it show choir but that’s six for one, half a dozen for the other, right?”  
  
“Glee was fun. Well performing was fun. Sitting through practice was more an exercise in endurance.”  
  
She laughs even though she can’t understand how hard and how often you had to try to not attack your teammates. “Performances were the best. I remember for the Delta Regional we did a Lauryn Hill medley that was spectacular. Did you guys sing popular music, or more show tunes?”  
  
You shrug, “We got really top-40 by the time I graduated. Without a doubt my favorite assignment was the Whitney Houston tribute. Brittany and I did a duet of  _I Wanna Dance With Somebody_. I also got to sing  _So Emotional_  with a girl who had this amazing voice paired with literally the worst personality. It was just nice to finally sing something that wasn’t Journey or like...disco.”  
  
Grace has a weird look on her face that’s probably the result of your disdain for classic rock. You change the subject by asking her what her major is.  
  
“Nursing. I’m in a six year program that will let me submatriculate into the MSN program in three years.”  
  
You’re impressed and you tell her so. You’re only studying Pre-med for appearances sake. There are just as many music classes as science classes on your schedule.  
  
“What field of nursing are you looking to get into?” “I’m not sure, but I know nurse anesthetists make a lot of money right out of school, so I’m looking into that.”  
  
You can’t help but chuckle when she says that. She looks confused so you explain.  
  
“Sorry, I think your career plan is awesome. There was just this one time I went to the dentist with Brittany. We got put under some strong as fuck anesthesia and had a combined dream. Britney Spears was there. It was so hot.”  
  
The silence that follows is deafening. Grace sets down her fork and looks you directly in the eye.  
  
“Santana, who’s Brittany?”  
  
You realize all of your little anecdotes have one thing in common. Brittany was present for all your important memories, both the happy ones she celebrated with you and the not so happy ones where she picked you up and put you back together.  
  
“She’s my...best friend.” You don’t want to lie; you just aren’t ready to say that word. You aren’t ready for Brittany to be your  _ex_ -anything.  
  
Grace looks skeptical “So. She’s your best friend. Are you sure she’s just a friend?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Well since we’ve been here, I’ve learned just as much about her as I have about you. I usually try to limit my dates to one person at a time.”  
  
You sigh. “She’s my...” The word catches in your throat again so you settle for, “We broke up a few weeks ago.”  
  
After that, there’s really nothing else to say. Luckily you’re nearly finished eating and just decide to skip dessert. She’s still firm on paying, since “I asked you out, sugar.” You actually find her Southern charm charming. That just makes you feel worse about ruining the date. You’re home by ten, asleep by eleven, wondering if something is seriously wrong with you.  
\---  
Now you know there is a problem with you. An attitude problem. The snark is practically pouring off of you in enormous toxic waves that devour anything in your path. It’s gotten to the point where you start to feel guilty at how many feelings you’re hurting. You never feel guilty.  
  
This is happening because you haven’t gotten laid in upwards of two months. The last time you went this long without sex, you intentionally gave your best friend mono. A date is out of the question. Things with Grace are still awkward. You don’t want anything that involves talking. Talking leads you to rambling about feelings which then leaves you alone with an itch you’ve been unsuccessfully trying to scratch on your own. But you can  _not_  talk. You’re the best at not talking.  
  
It’s your teammate Alison’s birthday and she dragged you and the entire team to a karaoke bar. The freshmen draw straws to decide who will be “sober sisters.” Naturally, it’s one other girl and you. Karaoke isn’t something you would ever want to do without several drinks, but you owe Ali for not dropping you once all season. There isn’t one Cheerio you can say that about. She’s three sheets to the wind before the hot wings are even delivered to the table. Her eyes have that glassy look that lets the rest of you know you’re going to have to watch her and make sure she doesn’t become an easy mark for the frat boys milling about.  
  
Because you’re not drinking, you’re also in charge of managing the bar tab and making sure no one drunkenly orders top-shelf bottle service. This means all orders go through you. It would be annoying except the bartender is smoking hot. She’s got skin just a shade darker than yours and a riotous mop of curls. Her eyes are surprisingly light and they remind you of a cat. Every time you place an order; you can feel her eyes on your tits. She’s  _at least_ heteroflexible. Which makes it perfectly OK that you can’t keep your eyes off her ass as she roams back and forth behind the bar.  
  
“Need another round, honey?” Her words are warm and mostly professional, but her smirk is asking if you’d like something else as well. You’re just about to lay on the charm when you hear the most familiar song intro of all time.  
  
 _“I took my love and I took it down.”_  
  
You turn around and watch slack-jawed as Ali and three other teammates stagger across the stage, singing at the top of their lungs. To add injury to insult, they’re singing the Dixie Chicks version. They would. You love them, but you hate them for what they’re doing to your song.  
  
 _Your song._  It’s not fair that thirty seconds of drunken caterwauling ruins your night. Not when the sexy bartender has fuck-me eyes and you’re horny as hell. But it does.  
  
This has killed any fun you were having and any chance of you successfully getting any action. At this rate, you’d have to get blackout just to make it to second base and you promised you wouldn’t. You’re able to bail early when one of the girls vomits by the edge of the stage and then nearly faceplants in it. Eagerly volunteering to take her home, you usher her out and into your car. You spend extra time solicitously helping her clean up and get into bed just so you don’t have to go back.  
\---  
“You look terrible.”  
  
Using the least possible amount of effort, you flip off your roommate and go back to your computer. It’s a Friday night and you have no plans. You didn’t have practice today and your one class was cancelled because the professors’ kid got ringworm or pinkeye or something gross that kids get. Having nowhere to be means you didn’t bother getting dressed. Or showering. Or even leaving your bed except to use the bathroom and refill your bowl of popcorn.  
  
“Have you even moved since I left?”  
  
 _Nope._  “Fuck off, Parker, this Jersey Shore marathon isn’t going to watch itself.” A few kernels of popcorn hitting the back of her head illustrate your point.  
  
“Dude, its Friday. Staying in is hella lame, even for you.” Parker is from California. The way she speaks used to be irritating, but now you can’t even summon the energy to care.  
  
“Santana”, she whines, flopping on your bed. “I’m starting to worry about you.”  
  
“I’m fine. I’m just going to die alone. Maybe I’ll get a cat. Or seven. And raise them as my children. Lesbians do that right? Or is that just spinster aunts. Maybe all spinster aunts are secretly just lesbians who couldn’t pick up girls.”  
  
Parker rolls her eyes, used to your dramatics.  
  
“Luckily for you. I’m a lesbian magnet.” At your raised eyebrow she clarifies, “Not like that. Just I knew a lot of them back home and I got one as a roommate  _and_  I found the perfect girl for you.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“She’s funny and she’s really cool.”  
  
“Based on your judgment? Still no.”  
  
“She’s on the track team and has killer legs.”  
  
You think about that for a minute and Parker takes your silence as an opening. “Just go. If it will get you in the shower and out of here, I’ll make a deal with you. If you don’t hit it off, I’ll do your laundry for a month.”  
  
You hate doing laundry alone and you have a lot of fucking clothes. “Even the delicates?”  
  
Your roommate nods and you huff out a “Fine” before putting your headphones in and shoving her off the bed with your foot. Worst-case scenario, there is some free labor coming your way.  
\---  
You have about fifteen minutes before your date and you’re walking to meet this mystery girl. You made Parker set it up at a small cafe off-campus because you don’t want to make a big deal out of something that is probably not going to end well. The cafe is in sight when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Unlocking it without looking, you clumsily trip when you see the name across the screen. Cheerleading has taught you how to fall very smoothly so you just roll into it and end up sitting on the grass in the Quad.  
  
 _Brittany S. Pierce: Hi! How are you?_  
  
Brittany ironically doesn’t use text speak and she made you put her full name in your phone so you wouldn’t get confused. Because you’ve only had her number memorized since eighth grade when she got the damn thing. After a quick reply that you’re fine and asking her how she’s doing, you wait. It’s unclear what should be done in this situation. How much you should say. You’d like to hear her voice but that might be against the rules. Like always, whenever you’re struggling with the rules are and what’s _supposed_  to happen, Brittany simplifies everything.  
  
 _Do you maybe want to Skype? If you’re free?_  
  
This is inappropriate. You’re broken up. You’ve been broken up for a large part of the semester. You type out to Brittany that you might have to do it later or tomorrow because you’re out right now, but you can’t seem to make your thumb press the send button. Sitting there in the grass, you’re attracting more than a few odd looks, but you really don’t know what to do.  
  
Two girls are waiting for you. One has the promise of a blank slate, a fresh adventure, and a new love. The other is your best friend and the most important person in your life, even now. It’s hard being away from her, even your current state of limbo. You just really want to hear her voice. That decides it for you.  
  
Hoping Parker doesn’t make you wash  _her_  trashy hippy clothes in exchange for bailing on her friend, you sprint back to your building, texting Brittany along the way.  
  
 _Be there in 5 min._  
  
When the video connection comes on, you see that she’s wearing one of her animal hats and your Cheerios hoodie. It’s obviously yours because the sleeves are just a little too short on her. You talk about everything. Classes are still pretty hard for her but she’s getting help and gave up motocross and put  _Fondue for Two_  on hiatus just to focus completely on passing. She says that if it weren’t for her, you two would still be together and that she doesn’t want to mess things up again. You try to correct her, knowing it’s your fault, but she just gets that stern, stubborn look in her eye and you can’t argue with her.  
  
She’s been spending more time with Blaine and Sam. You understand why she’d become closer to the former, but mention of the latter makes you uneasy. It’s not your place to interrogate her. Lord knows that would be hypocritical. The point is moot because Sam is one of the things you talk about. About how awesome he’s been at keeping Brittany’s mind off things. How he really listens to her and lets her talk about her issues in her own way without prodding her to get directly to the point. Most importantly, she talks about how she’s helping him woo the new, new Rachel (you don’t ask) since he’s not very good at keeping girls. The last thing Brittany says before signing off is I miss you. She smiles at you in a way that makes you feel so big when for the past few months you’ve felt so small and lost. You’re just a little speck out in the “real world” but she makes you meaningful.  
  
In a moment of clarity, it occurs to you that you’re a complete and utter idiot.  
  
There is nothing wrong with you or with any of the girls you’ve been “seeing.” In an alternate universe you might have fallen for one of them but in  _this_  one, it was never going to be right. Edgy brunettes will never be silly blondes; Southern belles will never be quirky soulmates, and you will always pass up a hot piece of ass if it means you can talk to Brittany even if it’s just through a computer screen. The trouble isn’t that you can’t fill a void but that the void isn’t empty. Brittany is still there. She’s a part of you. The best part.  
  
The call ended at two AM when Brittany signed off to go to sleep and you’ve been sitting there for almost an hour when you should be fixing things. You can’t sleep, you can’t focus. You need to see her to take it all back, to make things right. It takes just a few minutes to change into jeans and get in your car. The four-hour drive passes in a trace, but some kind of autopilot gets you in front of her house by half past seven. While you sit frozen in your car, her mother leaves for work. Her dad follows soon after taking her sister with him to drop off at school. Brittany’s in the house alone. You march up to her door and knock. You need to do this before you lose your nerve. The sound of your knuckles against the wood is much steadier than you actually feel at the moment.  
  
Brittany is surprised to see you. You can tell.  
  
“Hi, Britt. Can we talk?”  
  
Her face darkens with justifiable worry. Every time you’ve explicitly sought her out to talk, things haven’t gone smoothly. She leads you into the kitchen and starts making hot chocolate. She always makes it the way you like, with real milk. She sets out two cups of cocoa, each with a mound of whipped cream. There are even smiley faces made of chocolate syrup. This is strictly forbidden as per the Cheerio dietary restrictions and you wonder if she is breaking the rules just for you. She’s waiting for you to start talking, knowing there’s something you want to say. You look down at your mug. It’s unlikely you’ll be able to eat or drink anything until you get this off your chest. Even the smiley face makes you sad. You wish you had something happy to say. You wish that this didn’t feel like more of an end than the last time you saw her in person.  
  
“I was wrong. We’re not Kurt and Blaine or Mike and Tina and we’re definitely not Finn and Rachel. I shouldn’t have said those things and hurt you. I should have tried harder, made more time for you. To save us. And now...its too late and you won’t forgive me.”  
  
Blue eyes fill with concern at the way your voice trembles. “Forgive you for what? You got a little scared because all our friends were having a hard time. But now you’re here and I’m here. That’s all that matters."  
  
“That’s not all, Britt.”  
  
You calmly tell her everything. It’s all very clinical and detached as if you weren’t breaking her heart again. You can see her smile fade and it makes you feel slimy. Like a monster. She’s been blaming herself when really; all of this is your fault. That’s why you got sick when you slept with that girl. Your body knew you were wrong and now the guilt is finally catching up with your head. She’s silent. Brittany just sits and looks at you, staying that way for several minutes. You don’t rush her to respond because you honestly don’t know whether her next action will be to kick you out of her house.  
  
“Why?” she asks. Her voice is so small and pained it makes you want to sink into the floor.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
You jolt when she slaps her hand against the marble countertop.  
  
“No. You don’t get to pull that. I couldn’t even think of being with anyone but you. I figured you could wait for me to pass and prove that I’m worth it. I’m not good at a lot of things like history or biology, but I’m really  _really_  good at loving you. I’m the best at it. Why couldn’t you wait? Why?"  
  
You stay silent. You don’t know how to answer her without bursting into tears. She grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you a little.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I was afraid.” You blurt out, “I need you too much. We could grow apart and I’d be alone forever. You’re perfect. Someone will always love you. I’m different. No one has ever wanted me but you. What if no one ever wants me again?” You look away from her, tears burning your eyes and tightening in your chest. “What if you leave me and I can’t ever get over you?”  You can feel yourself unraveling. You’re trembling and your breath is coming out in uneven pants.  
  
“You’ve got this backward. I’ll never leave you. I’ve been waiting for you, Santana. I’ll always wait for you.”  
  
You’re full on crying now and she pulls you to her; kissing your hair, your forehead, and the tracks left by your tears. You shake into her arms, but it’s alright because she’s solid, the most constant, unshakeable thing you know. She picks you up, and your arms instinctively wrap around her neck. She carries you up the stairs like a child and sits you down on her bed, taking off your shoes and your shirt, making you shift a little to pull off your jeans. Standing, she slowly removes her own clothes and pushes you to lie back against her pillows. The midmorning light shines through her curtains, glinting off her hair. It’s almost too bright. You’re naked. She’s left you completely exposed. There is no part of you that she can’t see. It’s fitting.  
  
Goosebumps prickle your skin and you’re not sure if it’s from the late autumn chill or the way she just stands there looking at you. It’s irrelevant in the end because she settles on top of you, pressing her body down into yours. She always runs hot and her warmth stops your shivering. Her heartbeat against your palm convinces your own to slow down and match hers. You’re in sync. She kisses you once and weaves her hands through your hair before pulling back to look into your eyes. After all this time, you still don’t know what she sees there but it’s enough to make her smile warmly with a love you don’t understand.  
  
The slow roll of her hips catches you by surprise and you find that you’re instantly wet and hungry for her. She kisses you again, this time longer and deeper. Her thrusts pick up force but stay slow and languid. You haven’t done it like this in a while and it’s like heaven being this close with all of her pressed directly into all of you and both of her arms around you. Her hands in are your hair. Holding you in place while her body caresses yours. You feel the tension inside you building. With anyone else you would be embarrassed at how quickly you’re about to come, but its Brittany. She can pull anything out of you. Kindness, truth, courage, strength. All of those things you felt you were missing before her. Her hips press into you, their rhythm sending a message. It will always be like this between the two of you. Steady and perfect. She pulls pack to look at you again. Her hand traces down your eyebrow over your cheekbones and to your lips.  
  
“Santana”, she says, and the way she says your name; breathy with pleasure but still so sweet with love, pushes you that much closer to the edge. “I know you’re scared sometimes, but you don’t have to be. You’re my brave girl. Together we can do anything.”  Pushing herself up with her other arm, she hovers above you. The hand on your face trails down to rest on your heart.  
  
“This is the most powerful thing I know. Trust it. Trust me. Trust us.” With that, she presses into you hard and you fall apart. Your hips jerk up into her but she holds you down. Every muscle in your body tightens and then relaxes. You moan out her name before you fall back, limp from the intensity of your orgasm. A fresh wave of tears pools in your eyes and you wrap your arms around her and pull her down firmly on to you. You cry into her neck as she strokes you gently, murmuring calming nonsense.  
  
“I’m here, honey. It’s ok.” You sniffle and lean up to kiss her.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“I love you too.”  
  
And that’s all that matters.


End file.
